


From Kisses

by mktellstales



Series: First Draft Brain Dumps [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottoming from the Top, Brain Dump, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Draft Quality, First Time, In a super satisfying way, Kissing, M/M, Sherlock loses control, Short & Sweet, Sweet/Hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: They’ve kissed. Not once or twice, but dozens of times. Some breathtakingly slow and desperate to be the salve to all the pain they’ve never let heal, others fleeting and felt for only a moment, and others still that were reckless and full of abandon, but no matter the kind, the moment it pulled uncontrollable reactions from deep within them, they stopped.





	From Kisses

They’ve kissed. Not once or twice, but dozens of times. Some breathtakingly slow and desperate to be the salve to all the pain they’ve never let heal, others fleeting and felt for only a moment, and others still that were reckless and full of abandon, but no matter the kind, the moment it pulled uncontrollable reactions from deep within them, they stopped. 

 

The fear wasn’t of sex - they’d both been there before, but sex with each other was a magnificent moment they were both too afraid to bear witness thanks to arrogant assumptions and misconstrued communications, and yes, because of the magnitude of what it would mean. A kiss could be taken back, even a dozen kisses could be swept under the rug and forgotten, but not so with sex. 

 

The night was long and the adrenaline low. With lack of a case, Sherlock and John occupied the sitting room along with Rosie’s toys and cups of tea, and a silence neither of them is sure is comfortable or not. Sherlock is still intrigued he could reach out and place his lips against John’s with no repercussion, so he slipped from his chair and crossed the creaky space to where John sat in his. John knew just what Sherlock wanted and pulled him down to his lap and shared a kiss they both thought would be lazy and languid, but quickly became a hurried, passionate affair with John’s fingers tangled tightly in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock’s lengthy legs wrapped just as tight around John’s waist. Their bodies burned with a familiar fire, and suddenly, it all stopped. 

 

“Sherlock?” John glistened against the firelight of the flat like a precious nugget of gold Sherlock wanted to always keep in his pocket.

 

“What?”

 

“Have you ever been...with someone before?”

 

“Of course I have. How naive do you think I am, John?”

 

“I don’t. I just didn’t know for sure….A man? Woman?”

 

“For god's sake, are you trying to fish out whether I’ve slept with Irene Adler again?”

 

“No, no. I’m only trying to understand your sexual history.”

 

“Not a man, but men. Three I can remember, one that matters, and a handful I’ve thankfully forgotten. What about you?”

 

“I think the sleeping baby upstairs is a pretty clear answer.”

 

“Obviously, you’ve had sex - I mean, have you ever been with a man?”

 

“You mean you don’t know?”

 

“Based on our first night together, and the way you tried to pull me, I would have said yes, but then there was no more evidence to support that hypothesis.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to pull you.”

 

“You were drooling, John.”

“I’d just been through two tours, gone through excruciating rehabilitation, and lived in a sad, dingy flat. I was horny and desperate to touch anyone.”

 

“You know just how to make a bloke feel special.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“So, tell me then, about your sexual history.”

 

“They weren’t men because I wasn’t even a man then, but in high school, I fooled around with a few of my rugby mates - often. And, my neighbor at my rooms in uni - he and I shagged for nearly a year. I never slept with a woman until my second year in medical school, and I’ve never slept with a man since.”

 

“You are the only person who can continue to surprise me. Well, except Rosie, but that’s just because her brain isn’t fully formed. 

 

John’s smile was warm as he brushed his thumb along Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock captured it there with his own. The fear wasn’t gone, but a heavy barricade between them was broken. They stared at each other for a moment before they kissed again, but that was as far as they took themselves that night, interrupted by the cries of a child who preferred to sleep by her father’s side than behind wooden bars. 

 

It was two weeks before they even found time to kiss again, their lips blocked by cases, hapless DI’s, teething, the threat of plague (otherwise known as the four days Sherlock had a cold), and Mycroft. They finally found relief for the itch with Rosie at Molly’s for a night and the door firmly bolted. Not only would their lips finally find salvation, but they would touch and see and taste the last little bits they kept hidden away. 

 

With the dishes cleared and the courageous bourbon drank, they kissed the length of the hallway and undressed in Sherlock’s room. As suspected, John was beautiful even in the places he wasn’t, and Sherlock spent too much time admiring the bloom of scar tissue that covered much more of JOhn’s shoulder than he expected. He cataloged the length and the width of each spider-like spindle, the places where it was red and purple and where it still looked just like skin. He memorized the sour taste and the musty smell. He could have lost himself in that old war wound if not for John’s teeth at the pulse of his throat, biting him back to the reality of the moment. Sherlock was salty from sweat of the hot, summer night and a trace of tobacco still lingered from the cigarettes he smoke that afternoon. 

 

It was frantic and desperate as they touched places they’d never touched, and soon they filled the bedroom with the sound and smell of raw desire. 

 

“How do you want to do this, Sherlock?”

 

“I want you inside of me.”

 

“God yes.”

 

The nefarious details of Sherlock’s past, if unspoken, were not unknown, and John took care to protect himself before he made sure Sherlock was okay and then sat on the chair underneath the window and pulled Sherlock down on top of him. John thought there could never be any moment to rival that one - Sherlock wrapped around him for the first time, glimmers of sunset cast over his pale face. It would be burned in his brain forever. 

 

And then Sherlock started to move. 

 

He started slow and methodical, his hips rolled and ebbed as he sprawled across John’s entire body and pulled him forward for a kiss, and savored each moment with the kind of care John expected, but as he edged near absolute pleasure he lost any and all control.

 

“Slow it back down, Sherlock.”

 

But he couldn’t. He needed John more, deeper, faster, harder. He couldn’t stop and he couldn’t breathe, he wasn’t even thinking just fucking, and John let it happen, let Sherlock use him as he needed, because he never knew sex could be this raw and animalistic, that he could be so free or that his uptight, high-strung detective could be either. 

 

When Sherlock came with a guttural cry, John did too, and all the feeling left their bodies. Minutes pass, maybe even an hour before John found the brevity to scoop Sherlock in his arms and lay him across the best. His curls were so damp they were nearly straight, and John ran his fingers through them before he left a kiss on his forehead.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine, John.”

 

“A little embarrassed that you were a wanton slut?”

 

“Hardly.”

 

Sherlock’s chuckle joined John’s laugh and he pulled him down on the bed beside him. The night closed around them and darkened the room until they fell asleep struggling to still see each other. 


End file.
